


67 Records

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, M/M, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Record store AU, set in 1987.)</i>
</p>
<p>Dean spends most of his time at <i>67 Records</i>, a.k.a the best record store in the world, but he's a rock star at heart, still hoping to go big with his band. His routine-driven life full of work shifts and band practice shakes to its core when Castiel walks into it. Kind of weird and with no knowledge of modern music whatsoever (the guy only listens to Mozart and the like, Jesus), Dean somehow falls for him right away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	67 Records

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Destiel Reverse Bang. 
> 
> Thank you to Jill for the wonderful art -- CHECK OUT [THE ART MASTERPOST](http://busysquirrelpress.tumblr.com/post/141572679503/artpost-for-deanghostchesters-fic-67-records) \-- and for letting me write this tiny little fic for it, I honestly had a blast and I hope you're happy with the outcome. ♥ I had so much fun! Thank you to Hayley for being the best beta in the world. ♥
> 
> Lastly, due to various RL silliness, I didn't have the time to research ASL or anything connected to it. I wanted to include Eileen because she is AMAZING AND A BAMF but I'm worried I didn't do it justice. If you see any inaccuracies/stupid things, please DO call me out/correct me, I'd love to fix any errors. But please do it politely. Thank you.

 

  


** WEEK ONE **

  

Dean can't believe his freaking eyes.

He practically storms into the _67 Records_ store, his scarf all up in his face, headphones around his neck. Does he care that he's walked right into an on-going conversation? Absolutely not.

“What _is_ that?” he asks, pointing with his glove-covered hand at the back of the _Dirty Dancing_ poster he saw in the store's display as he approached it.

Charlie holds up her hand to shush him, then turns back to Eileen without even acknowledging him properly. “ _Snow isn't 'inconvenience powder', okay. It's what makes winter beautiful,_ ” she signs, but Eileen shakes her head dismissively.

“Inconvenience powder,” she repeats and turns away from Charlie back to a shelf with used vinyls, starting to reorganize it. It's pretty clear that she's not interested in further conversation.

Charlie _ughs_ out loud, as always when someone disagrees with her, then finally sighs and looks back at Dean. “What's your opinion on snow?” she asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I asked, what _is_ that?” he presses again, stubbornly.

He sure could answer Charlie's question but the truth is that he would wholeheartedly agree with Eileen – winter is not Dean's favorite and since it's the beginning of December, the promise of snow hangs in the air, and it's pretty intense at this point. Besides, he has a war to win here, no reason to start another one.

He uncurls the scarf from around his neck and takes off his gloves.

“That's a _Dirty Dancing_ poster,” Charlie answers, all innocent-like.

“Yeah, I can see that. What's it doing in the place of my _Rocky_ poster?”

“ _Rocky_ is old news,” Charlie explains patiently, as if to a child. “Seriously, the last part wasn't even good. Let it go. _Dirty Dancing_ is a true masterpiece.”

“You just have a crush on that chick that's in it,” Dean mumbles, fuming towards the back. He drops his bag along with his coat and other winter accessories on the couch there, and it doesn't even take him long to find the _Rocky_ poster – which he stole from the movie theater when he was a teen and it's one of his most prized possessions and honestly, it might be old news, but it still deserves that display spot. Who cares they're not even a video rental store?

He grabs it and returns back to the shop.

“Her name is Jennifer Grey and she's beautiful,” Charlie spits out as if she was waiting for him to reappear. Knowing her, she probably was.

“I don't care,” Dean says, grabbing tape from the cashier desk and walking up to the display area. “ _Rocky_ is forever.”

“Stop it!” Charlie exclaims and trails after him, grabbing his forearm and tugging at it with more force than probably necessary. “Don't you dare take that beautiful poster down!”

“You're acting like children,” Eileen informs them idly.

Charlie turns her head so Eileen can read her lips, “But he was late for his shift! My poster deserves to be there!”

“It was _five minutes_ ,” Dean argues, rolling out his _Rocky_ poster. It's well-worn around its edges and its color has definitely faded a little, but that's the sign of something that's been well-loved for years. It still looks perfect to Dean's eyes, except – except the right upper corner is torn where the tape used to be. “I can't believe you ruined it.”

“Okay, _that_ was an accident and I'm sorry.”

Dean squints. “So how about I tear you chick flick apart and then tell you I'm sorry?”

“Ugh, it's not a chick flick and I'm -”

“Hey,” Eileen interrupts them. She's kind of the mom-friend; very sensible and even Jo, the actual manager, tends to listen to her. Both Charlie and Dean turn their attention to her right away. “Just use both,” she tells them.

For a second, Dean definitely remains childish. He wants to say that it's the _Rocky_ poster's rightful place, as it's been ever since he started working in this record store three years ago, but then he sighs.

“ _I hate you_ ,” he signs to Eileen at the same time as Charlie signs, “ _Thank you_.”

Eileen simply shakes her head, and honestly, Dean and Charlie are lucky that she didn't simply throw an old Beatles LP at their heads. She definitely has done that before.

They both calm down and go to reorganize the display posters. Technically, they shouldn't even be allowed to have these here – they are a record store, after all, and if anything, they should be putting up music posters. But their store is – well, it's not your usual music store chain.

In fact, the only thing indicating that it's a music store are the word _Records_ in their name and the pieces of a broken vinyl hanging down from strings on the other side of the display, the non-poster side. The door itself pretty much doesn't indicate anything other than the owners must be completely insane and in love with their car, the 67 Chevy Impala that's painted on it. Yet, they get pretty good traffic – it's usually regulars and friends telling their friends about it, but it's enough to get them by.

Dean loves working there. Sam was the first one to get a part-time job there and it was pretty much the first time that Dean followed him eagerly rather than the other way around. He loves the store itself, the neon signs, the characteristic smell, he loves the people there.

(Yep, even Charlie. Especially Charlie. Their fights are their way of saying I love you.)

It's small and it feels like a community more than anything. Ellen, a.k.a the person who _always_ bitches about the posters but never actually tells them to get rid of them, is the owner of the place – and her daughter Jo, the manager. There's not a lot of other employees, not a lot of faces to confuse the customers.

There's Charlie and Eileen, of course, the duo no one could imagine the store without; and then there's Dean, obviously, and Sam – but they both work there part-time. Their full-time thing is their band, _Rock E_ (can you guess why?), still garage-bound but with a 'stadium-filling future' as Ash, their lead singer, says.

Either way, working there is kind of a love affair.

Even if you sometimes have to take a step back and agree to tape your _Rocky_ poster right next to a _Dirty Dancing_ one.

After all is said and done and Dean makes his way to the cash desk, he's glad the _Rocky_ poster could stay at all. It's just a few minutes past nine and there's barely two customers in the shop; kind of the calm before the storm.

Charlie leans against the cash desk from the other side. “Tell me something nice before I have to go ask those people if they need help,” she tells Dean, who's busy trying to scratch off an old disco sticker glued to the underside of the desk.

“Tell me something nice before you help those people and I have to deal with their germ-covered money,” he fires back.

Charlie sighs, resigned, and tapping her hand against the cash desk, she clears her throat and gets moving. The truth is that customers adore her, and she doesn't know how to deal with that. Dean watches her for a few seconds before he sighs as well and locates Eileen on the other side of the shop, waving at her.

“ _Put on some music?_ ” he asks and signs at the same time.

Eileen nods, her ponytail bouncing as she walks towards the radio.

At 67 Records, it's kind of a privilege to be offered a free turn at the radio (a.k.a their music box). All of them get one turn every day to put on whatever music they like, and Dean just gave up his willingly.

It's partly because he can't exactly move from the cash desk now, but the other reason is that Eileen has the best music taste out of all of them, even though she's deaf. She plays her music loud but it's always easy to listen to, even if it's not Dean's usual go-to rock music. Even now, she puts on Depeche Mode, which Dean would hardly ever admit to liking _out loud_.

They couldn't pinpoint what makes Eileen so _good_ at picking the right music, so they just asked her one night – out for beers, a few bottles down. She didn't give the most coherent answer, but her explanation had a lot to do with the way she _feels_ music, especially when it's played loud – something to do with vibrations and such.

Today, she chooses to play _Music for the Masses_ , and Dean's almost ashamed to recognize it right away, given that it's Depeche Mode's latest album, but oh, well.

It's not like he can dwell on it, anyway – a guy walks up to the cash desk, an old vinyl pressed against his chest. They make awkward eye contact and Dean tries to cover it up with a smile, but the guy looks down at the vinyl instead before he hands it over.

“Thanks,” Dean says, really desperately trying to sound cheerful. There's something about the guy – his messy hair, his baggy jeans, his loose white t-shirt, the backpack thrown over his left arm, and Dean catches a glimpse of crazy-blue eyes when he finally looks back up. He smiles again at that.

He turns the vinyl over, trying to find the price sticker, but there's none – he realizes it's one of their used ones, and when he turns it back over, he sees that it's freaking Vivaldi. _Vivaldi_.

“Excuse me for a second, we seem to have misplaced the price tag. I'll be right back,” he tells the guy, fighting the blush slowly creeping onto his face, practically stumbling over his own feet as he moves from behind the cash desk.

He has to wait a second for Charlie to stop talking about Siouxsie Sioux with some punk-rock chick (which, that discussion could easily go on for hours if she wasn't at work, Dean knows), but then he drags her aside and pretty much hides them behind a shelf with pop music, nearly knocking over a stack of Janet Jackson albums.

“You are _not_ okay today,” Charlie hisses, scowling. “What's wrong?”

Dean pushes the Vivaldi vinyl into her hands. “Since when do we sell shit like this?”

She checks it – it doesn't even seem to surprise her at all – then shrugs. “I don't know. Someone must have brought it in, who cares? What's wrong?”

“Well, there's no price tag,” Dean explains.

“How long have you been working here? Just the regular used vinyl price, Jesus.” She thrusts it back into his arms.

There's no point in trying to fight that blush – Dean can feel it burning up his cheeks already, violent and bright. He squeezes the vinyl in his hands and looks away, embarrassed. “Right.”

Charlie shakes her head, but then – and this is where a light bulb would pop into life above her head if this were an animated cartoon – she turns around, looking over to the cash desk. She seems frozen for a second; her look travels back to Dean shortly, though, one of her eyebrows raised in a _really?_ grimace.

“Shut up,” Dean groans, his face scrunched up in disgust (possibly at himself). “I panicked.”

“I can see that,” Charlie nods, her arms akimbo across her hips. “You really need to go out more.”

“I go out.”

“To brand practice. Must be life-changing.”

“It is, thank you so very much for expressing concern,” Dean says, sighing. He looks back at the cash desk and the guy – he's standing by it, looking almost lost, biting on his nail. Their eyes meet again, the boy's impatient and questioning, and Dean is very fast to look away again.

Okay, to lay down the facts: Dean thinks the boy is cute. Incredibly cute. He looks like nothing Dean usually likes in either a guy or a girl – no eyeliner, no plaid shirts, no fuck-you-up attitude; even his hands looked gentle when he handed Dean the vinyl. But he still looks _cute_ in Dean's eyes. Pretty smile, big eyes – Dean is definitely buying it.

And he is really, really bad (read: awkward) around people he finds cute. Poor Eileen had to endure that as well when they first met, but Dean got over it – who cares that both Eileen and Sam still laugh about it sometimes.

Charlie snaps her fingers in front of Dean's eyes. “You're welcome. Now go back to do _your job_ ,” she reminds him.

Half excited and half terrified, Dean retreats back to the back of the store and gives the boy another tight smile. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” the guy says, his petal-pink lips also stretching into a smile. He's now hiding his hands in his jean pockets, swaying on his heels.

Dean finally runs the price through the machine and asks for the usual five bucks price for their used vinyls, his hands clumsier than usual. When the guy hands over his money, Dean notices that they are actually shaking a little.

The exchange itself seems to be over too soon: Dean forces the vinyl into a bag, which the guy takes, they smile at each other one last time, and –

“Thank you,” the guy says, kindly, and –

“Thank you,” Dean repeats after him, hating himself for it, blushing again, and –

The boy steps away from the cash desk, turns around and walks away, as if it was nothing, and another person comes up, handing Dean a Bon Jovi album.

 

///

 

“You are so not in the zone today,” Ash complains after Dean screws up the same guitar riff for the fourth time in a row.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, the apology sour on his tongue. His fingers slide down the guitar strings and he sighs, straightening his back up, rolling his shoulders.

“What is up with you, my man?” Ash asks. “You know the sacrifices I have to make so we can practice here so I'd appreciate it if you could stop not doing it right.”

_Here_ , of course, meaning Ash's grandparents' garage. _Sacrifices_ , of course, meaning that he has to have dinner with them every Saturday. Things could be much, much worse, but there's a reason Ash is the leader of this band – he's enough of a drama queen to do the job.

The garage itself is more of a dump. Ash's grandma's old Jeep was stored here for many many years and it still smells like dirty socks here, plus, everything is covered in dust and the lighting isn't much. There are rows of cables because they have to get the electricity from the house and it's not practice until one of them trips over them and falls right into Jess's drum set and she growls at them.

“He's in love,” Sam announces and Dean shoots him an ugly glare. “What, Charlie called me the second her shift was over.”

“I'll kill her,” Dean groans.

“Yeah, with love, probably,” Sam argues, and okay, he's not wrong. “Mysterious guy walks into the shop, buys a Vivaldi vinyl, and what do you know, my big brother is gone for him.”

Jess laughs – she's the only lady and she's outrageously comfortable with it. Sam himself mans the bass guitar, Dean the lead guitar, and Ash does the singing – plus some mediocre guitar-playing as well. They're pretty much a mess, some of them tangled up in a relationship (that would be Sam and Jess).

“I'm not gone for anyone,” Dean insists, looking down at his wine-red guitar. His fingers automatically go to catch a chord, as if that could actually calm him down.

“Strange,” Ash hums. “Why do you keep butchering up my music, then? I mean, the last time that happened was when Eileen introduced you to Cassie, and that --”

“I write my own solos, thank you very much,” Dean interrupts him, and thank god for the shitty lighting because at least it hides the blush on his face.

Ash shakes his head, his awful mullet swinging with it – that guy's hair is softer than a baby's butt. “Okay, true. But still, who is this --”

“Can we just go on with the practice?” Dean cuts him off again, looking up to stare at him. “We all know the sacrifices you have to make for this, so.”

“Forget that, the sacrifice _I_ have to make are far worse, so let's do this, people,” Jess joins in, for once taking Dean's side on something.

Without another word, Ash starts up the song again, his own guitar slightly out of tune. With a sigh, Dean squeezes the neck of his own guitar, readjusting it, and his lips meet in a thin line. _Get it together_ , he tells himself, relief washing over him when he finally gets his part right.

This doesn't normally happen. Not after a two-minute long conversation with a customer. But the second they walk out of the garage and Dean lets his mind wander again, his thoughts run to the dark-haired boy all over again.

Cue sappy Elton John music.

 

** WEEK TWO **

****

It's snowing outside so you would think Charlie would dance into the shop, ecstatic. And she does.

Dean is just putting on some music – Zep, thank you – when she enters the store, snowflakes caught in her bright red hair and on the shoulders of her indigo coat. She laughs instead of saying hello.

“Can you believe,” she says, starting to unbutton the coat, “That we live in a world where a fluffy alien who likes to eat cats can get grumpy about not being able to _vote_. Holy shit.”

Okay. So maybe the reason for her excitement isn't the snow, but honestly, Dean doesn't even have it in him to be surprised. “Have you been watching Alf again?” he asks. He used to know _nothing_ about TV (except for Star Trek), but ever since working here, Charlie keeps them all updated on everything, including Dallas. Dean could entertain a whole group of middle-class white people with his Dallas knowledge.

“So sue me,” she says. “It's not that different from watching you interact with the real world.”

“I gotta say me and my buddy Alf do share a mutual hate for cats.”

“Please tell me you don't hunt them down and cook them,” Charlie comments. “Actually, don't tell me. Where's Eileen?”

“She's in the back,” Dean tells her, stepping away from the music box and pointing towards their backroom. “I know you're hoping for a sophisticated conversation about Alf, but honestly, I wouldn't go near her right now.”

Charlie frowns. “Why?”

“It's _snowing_. You know how she feels about that.”

Charlie groans, the sound muffled and annoyed. At least she knows it's useless to discuss it – Dean shares Eileen's feelings on the matter most of the time. It's only about a week into December and _yeah_ , they all knew it would snow eventually, but it looks like _death_ outside.

“Anyway,” Dean says, walking up towards the cash desk and picking up a magazine he'd been reading before Charlie came in. “Guess what song is number one right now.”

“I refuse to believe it's anything else than _The Time of My Life_ from the love of my life,” she says, pointing at that ugly Dirty Dancing poster still taking up space right next to Rocky.

Dean snorts. “It's _Heaven is a Place on Earth_ now,” he announces, almost celebratory, even though he hates that song more than real life, and he hates real life with a damn burning passion. It's still worth the disgusted expression on Charlie's face, though.

“The world is no longer beautiful,” she says, legitimately sounding sad, as she finally shrugs off the coat. “Do you think that if I bribed whoever does these, I could --”

The bell above the door rings, interrupting both Charlie and the song that was just in its chorus. It's early for a customer: they do open at nine and it's a few minutes past that, but they're alternative enough that no one usually comes in until at least half past nine. Charlie and Dean snap their attention towards the door, and where Charlie laughs, Dean's head spins.

It's the dark-haired guy. Probably here to find another Vivaldi, who the fuck knows.

“Um, hi,” the guy says.

Charlie shoots Dean a look: it's more of a chance, really. She's offering him the opportunity to get involved, get the guy's number, maybe (if only), but Dean's frozen in his spot. As freaking always. Total rock star.

Charlie sighs. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“There's this poster pamphlet thingy,” he says, his thumb pointing behind him at the door. “That says you're looking for someone to help out this month around the Holidays?”

Which is about as far as Dean gets without an alarm going off in his head.

“Yeah!” Charlie exclaims, _way_ more excited than she usually is about the idea of taking on new people for the Holidays chaos. Actually, she usually hates everyone new. Now, though? She looks like this is the best day of her life, and Dean knows why. “Our manager's not here right now, but you could show up around three this afternoon for an interview.”

“Just like that?” the guy asks, as if he spent hours upon hours working on the perfect CV and they're totally snatching that right out of his hands.

Charlie nods. “Yup. What's your name, by the way? So I can tell Jo.”

“Uh, it's, it's Castiel. Cas for short.”

“Cas for short,” Charlie nods. “I'll definitely let her know. Tip for the interview: don't compliment her on anything, she'll hire you just so she can fire you for it.”

“Thanks?” Castiel says, uncertain, squeamish. For the first time, his eyes jump from Charlie to Dean; wide open and kind of panicking, and Dean can only imagine that his own must seem the same. “I'll be back, then,” he says, his glance still on him before he drops it and walks out.

Charlie whistles because she's horrible like that, turning on her heels. “Wow. I can literally tell you're dying right now. It's amazing.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, running his hand over his face so as to hide it for at least a few seconds, to attempt rubbing off his blush.

It's too lovely a thought (just as much as it is terrifying) to think that the guy – _Cas_ – could be an every day thing. Something to make Dean fall apart with every shift. It would be terrible and terribly nice.

 

///

 

To spare you the actual inner turmoil that followed these events, let's sum it up and try to make it as quick and non-painful as possible. So.

1\. Dean definitely does try to swap shifts with Sam, but Sam being Sam refuses based solely on the fact that Dean is a nervous wreck and that's always fun as long as it's not life-threatening, and therefore

2\. Dean is still at the store when dark-haired guy Castiel comes back for his chit-chat interview with Jo – and at this point, even Jo knows, and at this point, making fun of Dean's absolutely unreasonable crush is officially the most popular game of the day. However

3\. Castiel's chit-chat interview goes amazingly well and Jo hires him on the spot without consulting his mother, the actual owner: it happens in the backroom so Dean doesn't know whether the guy is just that brilliant, or worth it, or said something magical like, 'Jo, avoiding conflict with the customer and being nice even if they're an absolute pain in the ass is my mission in life'.

4\. And that brings us here, which is Dean leaving the store knowing that the next time he comes in, Castiel will be there as well, wearing a name tag and all.

5\. Wow.

 

///

 

True enough.

Dean's next shift doesn't start until late afternoon-ish the next day, and when he walks in then, it's like entering a whole new world.

Where all the people working at 67 Records were consumed with mocking him and generally being a pain just a day ago, they're all completely wrapped up in the new guy today.

To be honest, Dean kind of wants to yell that Cas is _his_ , technically. He called dibs when he lost his shit the very first time Castiel walked into the store; but you can't actually call dibs on people and Dean would rather keep the rest of that statement to himself.

“You're giving your music turn to Cas today,” Eileen informs him when he drops his coat – once again snow-covered – and his bag by the cash desk.

He groans for show. “ _Why don't you give him your turn instead?_ ” he signs, his heart barely in it: he doesn't mind. He has yet to even look in the guy's direction but he'll willingly give his turn up for him.

“ _Because my taste in music is too good to miss out on it_ ,” she signs back, a satisfied smile on her face. The worst thing is, no one can argue with that, even if they wanted.

“Any day now, man, I'll quit,” Dean says grumpily, emphasizing the last word, but Eileen simply laughs. It's a good thing Charlie is nowhere to be seen, she'd surely have something witty to add to that.

“You love it here!” she acclaims, happy, and Dean hears a hint of a laugh.

His head snaps towards Castiel within seconds. A shy, careful smile sits on top of his generally freaking beautiful face, making it seem even nicer. Tiny pink spots blossom on his cheeks: he's blushing as much as Dean was, as if unsure if it was his place to laugh and smile alongside them at all.

Dean's insides pretty much dissolve into mush and by the time he remembers that he's a human being supposed to interact with other human beings, he's already sub-consciously grinning back. “Have at it, man,” he tells him, sounding much more confident than he actually is.

“Are you sure? I don't want to break any rules,” Cas says softly, though he articulates really well – who knows if it's for Eileen or if his mouth moves like that just because.

Dean shrugs. “It's a stupid rule anyway. Just put on whatever you want, we'll make a new schedule for the week so we can all have our turns.”

The smile spreads; it's contagious. “Thanks.”

Castiel turns his back to them, going to rummage through a shelf to pick something he'd like to listen to, and Eileen jabs her finger into Dean's side painfully.

“ _I can't believe you said that about our rules,_ ” she signs, and Dean would have to be blind to not get the message: she's half amused and half surprised.

“ _It's just because he's the new guy_ ,” he signs back quickly, well-aware he fucks up somewhere in there; learning sign language isn't the hardest thing he's ever had to do, but it doesn't come to him as easily as, say, playing the guitar used to: though it's not comparable, those two, not really, not even in the basic sense. He throws an apologetic look Eileen's way.

She smiles at him, accepting. “ _Whatever you say._ ” She shrugs, done with the topic, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ears.

Automatically, Dean's eyes travel back to Castiel's back. He's wearing another white shirt today, the top two buttons undone, and jeans, with the shirt hanging over them, not carefully tucked inside. And he seems to have found his pick.

Dean and Eileen both watch as he makes his way across the store towards the music box; both practically leaning over the cash desk, inching closer.

_The Cure_ , Eileen writes on an abandoned piece of paper. Dean tilts his head: he can't quite imagine Castiel listening to them, not to mention having posters of lipstick-wearing Robert Smith. But he's been wrong before, and Cas' hair is so messy, sticking out every which way, that it'd make sense Smith's own nest of hair is an inspiration. Still, he picks up the pen and writes down a different guess while Castiel struggles to get the radio to work.

_Something classical_ , he spells out, thinking back to the guy's first purchase.

Needless to say, Dean jaw pretty much drops when the box finally listens and lets Castiel play his music.

“Oh my God,” he mouths and frantically, he writes down ABBA!!, underlines it twice, then looks back up. And of course Castiel is already staring back at him, expectantly, and Dean hasn't had the time to make the amused expression on his face disappear. Castiel's face falls.

“I don't know much about pop music,” he says, apologetic, and it takes a lot not to snort at that statement alone. _Pop music._ Huh. “You can – you can have your turn back.”

It's strangely sentimental – accompanied by _Chiquitita_ playing out of the speakers.

“No, no, it's fine,” Dean squeezes out a second too late. There's tension – which he's not used to in this environment, and his words do nothing to ease it. Castiel seems almost jumpy. “Seriously.”

“So you don't want your turn back?”

“Well, I'm more of a rock guy myself, but hey, it could have been worse,” Dean says, offering a small smile.

There's an entire store parting them – shelves upon shelves of vinyls and albums and magazines. Dean feels like they're those two posters hanging in the display – not that one of them is a boxer and the other one a dancer, just that they're completely, utterly different. And yet Dean feels a pull towards him, ridiculous and unreasonable.

Whatever it is, he manages to get it across that space that's parting them, all the way to Cas – because he smiles gratefully back and finally unfreezes, moving away from the music box.

“I can't promise it'll be better next time,” he says quietly – a joke, but it feels like he's taking a risk with it. It makes Dean smile in a very genuine way.

“ _He's cute_ ,” Eileen signs in the end and the tips of Dean's ears turn tomato red. It feels like she's giving him permission to totally pine after the new guy, and what's worse is that it makes Dean feel better about wanting to. “ _Go help him out_.”

“ _Not a word to Charlie_ ,” Dean signs, but he goes.

 

** WEEK THREE **

 

Dean has never been the type to… pine after people. He always either decided they weren't worth his time or he simply went for it.

It's very different with Cas.

Because Cas himself is different.

He's not like the rest of them working at the store, but somehow, he fits: they all love him even though he's been working there for barely a week.

He's… weird, in a very good sense of the word. He doesn't take part in their music-heavy conversation, mostly because he hasn't heard about any of the current artists (or anyone past the artists that were long dead before he was even born), and he doesn't share their mocking humor. Dean feels like Cas _hates_ the mocking; and somehow, they are all completely okay with that.

Cas is the guy to ask you how your day's been, and Cas is definitely the guy everyone finds easy to trust. Dean saw Charlie leave with him for coffee after two days even though she doesn't usually trust anyone, and even Sam bonded with him after one shift together. Eileen keeps leaving him silly notes: Cas doesn't know sign language (yet) and while it made him upset, it keeps making Eileen laugh, and passing notes seems to be their favorite thing to do. Jo keeps an eye on him, in a friendly manner as well, and Ellen seemed to take to him when she stopped by the other day.

So that means that everyone has found their way into Cas' heart, or the other way around.

Everyone except Dean.

Because he's too busy pining. Which is something he's really not used to doing and it's freaking him out. The fact that Cas is different, but so effortlessly kind and nice and his smile literally lights up the entire freaking store – even when there's a bitchy pain-in-the-ass customer – makes it somewhat harder.

Dean feels inappropriate, still feels empty space between them, and he honestly doesn't know how to cross it. Any attempt at a conversation ends up in Awkwardland and that's even more frustrating.

(He may or may have not complained about Cas totally secretly disliking him at band practice at least twice, and Ash may or may have not thrown an empty water bottle at him for it.)

(Jess told him to woman up and just be friends, for fuck's sake, thank you.)

Either way, there's always hope, and sometimes that hope is a cassette tape hiding in Dean's backpack, because he's desperate enough to do something like that.

It's a tape filled with Dean's favorite rock songs (and he took special care so as not to include anything love sick-y, not even _Bizarre Love Triangle_ by New Order) and he plans on giving it to Cas that day. He's totally going to give it to him before his shift is over – hell, he'll give it to him by noon, by _eleven thirty-nine_ or something.

The streets are still snow-covered as Dean walks to the store, but at least it's not snowing anymore. The warmth of _inside_ is still welcome, though, when he walks in.

Sam waves at him from the cash desk. “I totally forgot you were on today and was just calling you. Was getting kind of mad that you didn't pick up, actually,” he says instead of hello.

Dean frowns, shrugging off his oversized leather jacket – apparently, once it's not snowing, it's leather jacket weather in his book. “What's the fuss about?”

Sam leans on his elbows over the desk. “Ash can't today so we moved the practice to Thursday.”

“What day is it again?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It's Tuesday, Dean.”

“Ah,” Dean nods, walking across the store towards the backroom. “How come you're here today?”

“Good to know you're happy to see me,” Sam says, dead-pan. “Charlie's sick, apparently the snow got the best of her after all.”

“Well, figures,” Dean mumbles but makes a mental note to call her later and ask how she's doing. He might look like the careless thoughtless friend, but out of their entire friend group, he's the one to show up on your doorstep with hot soup when you're sick.

Dean makes his way to the backroom and he's just hanging his jacket up when Cas walks out of the bathroom, rubbing his hands dry on his jeans. They both kind of freeze when they see each other.

“Hello,” Cas says after a few empty seconds, a small smile tugging at his lips – though it seems like he's not willing to let it spread.

Dean clears his throat. “Hey, Cas.” And then he thinks: _do it now_. Because, let's face it, this is probably the best chance he'll get all day – he's got Cas here, it's just the two of them, the backpack is still in his hands. “I've – uh – got something for you.”

Castiel frowns a little, tilting his head slightly. “Oh? Do you guys do Christmas presents, because I didn't know --”

“No, it's nothing like that,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head and rummaging around in the backpack while holding it up with his other hand. “It's just a little something – because you said --”

Castiel closes the distance between them, suddenly standing right next to Dean. This is probably only the fifth time or so that they're this close together, and Dean instantly catches a whiff of Cas' shampoo, something very for-men but still smelling incredibly good and fresh, like he just stepped out of the shower. He tries to breathe, tries to keep his eyes on the bag, tries to keep his heart beating steadily. Tries to find the damn tape.

He fishes it out in the end, an embarrassing minute or so later, and immediately shoves it towards Cas.

“It's just – you said you weren't into pop music – and okay, this isn't exactly pop music, but it's just a lot of songs that I like, man, and I figured – I mean, you gotta start somewhere, and – yeah.”

Castiel takes the tape and seems to consider the way Dean wrote his name on it (CAS, in all capitals, crooked) for a second, then looks back up.

To be honest, Dean was hoping for a smile. Or at least something in Cas' eyes that would tell Dean he didn't fuck up completely by doing this. If anything, though, Cas looks confused, wide-eyed, taken aback. Difficult to say if it's in a bad way or not.

(Probably in a bad way. Dean is seventy-five percent sure.)

“Thank you,” Castiel says after all, looking back down at the tape. He flips it over in his hands, looking at it like he's never seen a cassette tape in his life. “That's nice.”

“You don't have to listen to it,” Dean says, definitely blushing now, feeling stupid to his very core. This was a bad idea if he ever had one. “I just thought – yeah.”

“It could be interesting,” Castiel admits, but Dean is still not very convinced, and Cas' face is still pretty much blank, and holy shit, this is a disaster, “But I don't know if I'd ever make myself listen to it, since it's not my kind of music.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Dean just found out what it would feel like to have Rocky punch you in the ring. Holy _shit_. He's pretty much in shock.

“But,” Castiel says then, and Dean doesn't even have it in him to react, “Maybe if we listened to it together?”

Dean blinks. Once, twice. “I'm sorry, what?”

It takes one look to realize that Castiel is blushing slightly as well, and still staring down at the tape, playing with it. Just not looking at Dean. “Maybe if we listened to it together?” he repeats again, word-to-word.

_So like a date?_ Dean wants to ask but thankfully stops himself.

This is familiar territory and it _is_ date material – he has had girls and boys over to listen to music together, or play the guitar for them if they wanted to hear it, and it always led to – to – to lips against lips and arms in arms and – and – and –

Dean clears his throat, completely failing at keeping his heart beating steadily. By now, it's a bird flapping its wings furiously, frantically, as if trying to escape a cage. “That would awesome.”

Castiel looks up and this time, he doesn't try to stop his smile from spreading. It stretches his outrageously pretty mouth and he shows his teeth; even his eyes are smiling, still wide but happy. “Really?”

“Well, of course, man.”

“Good,” Castiel says and nods, now holding the tape close to him, turning around to hide it in the safety of his coat's inner pocket. “I'm looking forward to that. Thank you, really.”

“I'm -” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, trying not to look away, a happy smile tugging at his own mouth. “You're welcome, Cas.”

And so there's that.

 

///

 

“Who's closing the store tonight?” Castiel asks around five in the afternoon, when Eileen goes to the back and he and Dean are alone in the actual store.

Cas is manning the cash desk for once – his second or third time, they're still keeping an eye on him – and Dean's rearranging the pop section because it's messy and it's impossible to find anything at all.

Dean looks up from the George Michael album he's been trying to find a spot for. “Eileen. Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” Cas says, looking down at the desk, trying to scrub off one of the stickers, “If you weren't closing, we could go to your place – or, or mine, and listen to the tape?”

It's been nearly a week – to be completely honest, Dean has given up hope that that would ever happen. Cas never mentioned it again and Dean didn't want to force it, so this is – this is a nice surprise and he's taken aback enough to not freak out about it, but rather be excited and grateful instead.

“That would be cool, man,” he says, with a smile already tugging at his lips. “So, my place or yours?”

“I live with my family, so yours would probably be better.”

“If you're sure you're ready to face the absolute mess that is my apartment...” Dean trails off. He truly tries his best to not read into this.

(Why wouldn't Cas want to bring him over? Why would he want them to be alone?)

(It's ridiculous. A week ago Dean thought Cas disliked him. So, what the hell?)

“It can't be worse than my room,” Castiel says, but from what Dean knows – smells nicely, probably showers every day, keeps his things organized, doesn't make a mess in the backroom, ever – it's nowhere near the actual truth.

“Aw, a mercy lie,” Dean says, touching his hand to his chest, acting out gratitude. “I owe you a beer or two for that, definitely.”

Castiel blushes slightly, looking away – who knows, maybe he doesn't even drink, but for once, what Dean's saying is making sense and actually _working_ , and even though the sensible part of Dean's brain knows to disregard this as just teasing, the _other_ , suddenly more prominent part of him wants to believe that it's flirting.

Easy, harmless flirting.

 

///

 

They don't talk much on their way to Dean's. It's not that far away and the silence doesn't sit on their shoulders like an uninvited guest. It's more of a companion, as if they were trying to fall into the same pace, the same rhythm, and being quiet could actually help it.

Dean does feel closer to him after those few blocks, actually.

Walking up the stairs to his indeed messy apartment, it feels like he's bringing up a friend, not a recent addition to his work life.

It's ridiculous to think that, perhaps, given that they've barely exchanged a couple of sentences on their way here, but Dean doesn't feel the least bit uncomfortable leading Cas into his own space. His apartment is truly his – he used to share it with Sam but he moved in with Jess months ago, and ever since then, he's made it _Dean's_. Unmistakably so.

There are posters decorating the room – bands hanging right next to movie stars and Kurt Vonnegut posters, some of them worn and old, bought at markets and yard sales. Some of them were more difficult to get and should probably be framed. They look good on the old scraped walls, though.

The apartment is cheap, Dean knows that one could call it that. There's no fancy furniture and sometimes, he spends fifteen minutes just trying to find a spoon, but he likes it that way. Not because he's messy (he's lazy, if anything; he'd rather write music or go out), but because it makes him feels like he's truly _there_ , moving around in this space.

Moving, living.

“It's definitely not as messy as I feared,” Cas comments once he kicks off his boots and shrugs off his coat. “But still messy.”

“Eh, you know me,” Dean shrugs. “Living room's that way,” he points in the correct direction, “I'll just get us those beers and we can get started.”

That moment of separation does Dean in for a brief second: opening his fridge door and opening those bottles, he panics.

It's been a long time since he had a boy over; it's been a long time since he cared about whoever it was that was over. With Cas, somehow Dean cares. It takes a couple of deep breaths to recollect himself and head back into the living room.

Cas is already sitting on the olive-green sofa when Dean enters the room, and they exchange a smile. To Dean's relief, the atmosphere hasn't shifted; the silence is still a companion, kind and natural, rather than annoying and tense.

“You have the tape?” Dean asks once he hands Cas one of the beers.

Once he's got it in his hands, he goes to his radio player and plays it – but for some reason, he keeps the volume low so they can talk, even though they've been mostly silent so far.

“That's Def Leppard,” Dean informs Cas when he makes his way back to the sofa and sits down on it as well, a safe distance from Cas' hands, thighs, just everything.

(At the same time, he feels like no distance would be safe, no matter how hard he would try.)

“Are they your favorite?” Castiel asks, sipping on his beer and tilting his head a little when he wants to listen in and catch the tune. Dean doesn't really expect him to like it, but he appreciates his trying more than anything.

Dean shakes his head. “No, but I like them. Rock E is my favorite,” he says with a smirk.

“Who's that? I'm sorry, I really don't know anything about --”

“You wouldn't know – that's the band I'm in,” Dean interrupts him, a little sheepish but mostly proud, because he still feels kind of cool whenever he says that – _I'm in a band_.

Castiel looks surprised, but not in a bad way. “That's wonderful! Do you guys play in clubs and stuff?”

“Not yet,” Dean says, “But we'll get there. Dunno if Sam told you he was in a band but it's the same one and, well, we really do work together and I think we have something, we're just – kind of waiting for an opportunity, you know?”

Castiel's smile looks incredibly genuine and happy and Dean could get drunk on it, honestly drunk on it; he would drink it up like it's the most delicious sweet in the world. It lights up the entire room; Dean hasn't seen him smile this big before.

“It's good to have a goal and believe in it,” he says in the end, and now Dean wishes he didn't consider that safe distance when he sat down. He wants their knees to bump and he wants to nudge Cas in the shoulder, to distract him from the blush on his face.

He is practically embarrassed. “Thanks, man.”

The first song is over and it slips into Bon Jovi – because hey, he doesn't suck on occasion, okay – and for a second, they're quiet again.

“So how come you wanted a job at a store like 67 Records?” Dean asks after all, because in the end, he's hungry for any kind of information, no matter how important or trivial.

The living room will smell like Cas for hours after he's left, Dean knows. It feels nice and warm and like this is what was supposed to happen ever since they first laid eyes on each other. Even though Dean has no damn clue what _this_ actually is.

“Ah, well,” Castiel says, his fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck, “My family supports me but I wanted my own money as well.”

“Are you, like, still in school? Shit, you're okay to drink alcohol, right?” Dean considers him for a second: there are crinkles around Cas' eyes whenever he smiles, but sometimes, young people have them too; maybe they laughed or cried too much, you never know.

Castiel laughs, though. “Yes, Dean, I'm old enough to drink alcohol,” he says. “But I'm still in school, kind of. Trying to get my PhD in art history.”

“Oh, wow,” Dean whistles, “Don't think I know anyone with a degree like that, good for you.”

Cas looks as happy with the remark as Dean was with Cas' before, so at least they're even; that makes Dean smile over his beer as he goes to take another sip. He chances a quick glance at Cas' profile only to be caught eye-to-eye. They both look away way too quickly.

“I still think it's awesome that you found yourself at our store,” Dean tells him eventually.

“Well, I really liked it there,” Castiel shoots back, his eyes lingering on Dean's face just a little bit too long, and if Dean didn't try to blink it away, he would notice that they travel down to his lips and Castiel has to look away.

Dean clears his throat. “It's an awesome place, feels like a second home to me by this point.”

“I agree that the people there are all amazing, but that's not what I meant,” Castiel tells him. He seems almost stubborn in his trying to get whatever it is that's bugging him out.

(Dean has hope. Which is a dangerous thing.)

(So, in case it's not _whoa I like you_ , he just… doesn't even react. Because how do you react to that without either alienating your crush or looking _way_ too eager?)

The song changes again but the volume is too low and Dean is too preoccupied with others things to pay attention any more. There are other things to consider, such as Castiel's face, in the grand scheme of things, and all that. Very important.

“Oh,” he breathes out in the end, which in his eyes crowns him as the dumbest person he has ever freaking met. How incredibly intelligent, _oh_. That's even worse than if he went with _Oh?_ and that one is pretty bad as well.

“Well, I...” Castiel trails off. He puts the beer bottle down on the floor and rubs his hands over his thighs. Whatever the song that's on right now is, the drums are intense. “Originally, I came back because I wanted to see you and I saw that you were looking for someone, and...”

But that's surreal. It's one thing to pine after someone. It's something else for that someone to tell you they like you. Sort of. That _is_ what Cas is saying, right? Or _is it_?

“But you don't like me,” Dean objects, wondering himself whether he's being irrational or just plain confused.

“I'm a big avoider when I like someone,” Castiel says and a nervous laugh escapes his pretty mouth. “But I do, I do like you. It's why I came back, why I wanted the job – I mean, the money as well, I do need that, but… And when you gave me that tape, I figured, might as well go for it, right?”

Dean is stunned. “Right.”

(You fall for a guy who probably doesn't know that Deep Purple exists. You fall for a guy who blasts Mozart. You fall for a guy you barely know because he looked at you and it felt like standing by the sea. You know. That completely amazing breathtaking feeling you get. Like the world is so wide and big and opening right up for you.)

(You fall for a guy who barely talked to you because he didn't know any better than to avoid. Just like you. And you wonder, how on Earth do you like someone you don't know, and how can you be so different and so alike at the same time?)

(You fall for a guy. And he falls for you.)

And the phone rings and Dean jerks awake; suddenly it all feels like a dream he's been immersed in and it's time to let go of it. The expression on Cas' face suffers from it too: it breaks down and for a moment, they are both confused as to what exactly is happening.

“I – need to get that,” Dean squeezes out in the end, “can't not pick up when you have a little bother to take care of. I'll be right back.”

He nearly stumbles over his own feet as he hurries towards the kitchen where his landline is. He's practically praying that it's some sort of emergency – because if not, it's an opportunity completely gone to waste.

“Yeah?” he snaps upon picking up, the fingers of his free hand automatically playing and tangling with the cord.

“Dean, my man!” Ash practically screams – to the point where Dean has to pull away a little, just to save his ears.

“Ash, this is literally the worst timing --”

“Listen, listen, I just got the most amazing news, and we need you to come and celebrate with us,” Ash cuts him off – and going by his tone, they've been celebrating already. Whoever _they_ means.

“What exactly is going on? Are you in trouble? Do you need me to pick you up somewhere?”

“I need you to pick me up in _Heaven_ where I went after I was told that we're _in for the Christmas Battle of the Bands _.” Ash's emphasis is loud and shriek-y and barely understandable, and Dean generally has a difficult time comprehending this.__

_“Say that again,” he says, breathless._

_“You and I. And Sam and Jess. Rock E. We are in for the Battle of the Bands, _baby_.”_

 

 

///

 

“And apparently, they were at the venue for some smaller concert, and they just got talking about music to some guy, and that guy turned out to be the freaking manager, and he likes that group of absolute lunatics so he was like, hey, we can put you and your band on the list. Can you _believe_ that?” Dean spills, red in the face from the excitement, pacing the living room from one wall to the other and then back. Over and over again – otherwise he'd probably be jumping up and down.

“That's incredible, Dean,” Castiel says, and his happiness really does seem genuine – so much so that Dean completely forgets what they had been talking about just before the phone rang, momentarily forgets the importance of it.

His entire body and mind are on fire. He could rock the most ridiculous guitar solos right now and do so flawlessly – that's what this feels like.

He runs his hands through his hair, the tape he made for Cas still playing in the background. “I was just talking about an opportunity, and --”

“Yes,” Castiel says, with the same smile still.

He gets up from the sofa, his beer abandoned on the floor, only half-finished. He steps closer to Dean and to his surprise, he gently rests his hand on Dean's forearm.

“You should go celebrate with them,” Cas tells him, quiet.

“But I'm celebrating here with you,” he objects, and that's when it gets to him, finally – that they were talking about liking each other and that Castiel admitted something wonderful and Dean never got the chance. And this night is just incredible all in all – it's early Christmas. “Besides, I wanted to say --”

“I mean it, you should go celebrate with them,” Castiel insists. “We'll do this some other time, okay?”

(You fall for a guy and you can't say no to him even if you want to hold him close and he wants to let go.)

 

** WEEK FOUR **

 

Dean is already at the store (and blasting AC/DC to calm himself down) when Castiel gets in for his shift. Technically, he's four minutes early, but Dean feels like he's been waiting for ten thousand years.

This is much worse than giving him the tape.

In his hands is a flyer, its edges slightly wet from his sweaty hands, the top right corner bent and fading in color. It's the one they printed for the Battle of the Bands, and even though their conversation has gone back to minimal after their abrupt parting that night, Dean still wants to hand it over.

(To be honest, he hopes that they'll be able to go back to that night.)

(He kind of hopes that he was something more, something the ringing phone sounded over and they were both too out of it to get back to it, to fight for it.)

(Stupid. Naive. School boy.)

“You're drooling,” Charlie reminds him as she passes him on her way to the cash desk with a Bob Dylan vinyl in her hands. “Need a napkin?”

“Buzz off,” Dean tells her grumpily, but his annoyed expression vanishes the second he catches Cas' eyes – a smile replaces it and however shyly and even though it takes a lot, he tries to wave Cas over. “Hey.”

Castiel smiles, his mouth half-hidden in his giant blue scarf which he only now starts to unwrap. December suits him, Dean decides.

“Hi,” Cas says once he makes his way over to Dean who's standing by the used section, still holding on to the flyer as if he were holding on for his dear life. “Did you need something?”

“I – uh,” Dean tries, rubbing his free hand over the back of his neck out of nervousness. He looks down at the flyer – two red guitars crossed like swords, a weird fiery front informing about the time and place, the whats and hows, black background. It feels stupid, for a second, like he would have to be in high school to be serious about this, but he manages to shake the feeling off. “We finally got the flyers for the Battle of the Bands.”

“Ah, lovely,” Castiel says and he takes the flyer when Dean hands it to him, inspecting it. “You were so excited, I hope you guys get your chance.”

“Yeah, I – thanks.” Another rub over the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you'd like to come?”

Castiel looks up at him with those ridiculously blue eyes of his, seemingly surprised. “I don't know if that's such a good idea --”

“C'mon, you were there when I got the call,” Dean cuts him off, and okay, maybe that's not the least awkward thing he could have come up with. “It only makes sense that you be there for it, too.”

Dean knows those are not the correct words the second he says them. He can see that reflecting in Cas' glance – he's unhappy, definitely not getting the message Dean's been trying to get across.

This is what he wanted it to sound like: It's very important to me that you're there when my band and I do this thing because somehow, _you_ are very important to me right now and it would feel wrong not to have you there, so please come even though it's not your kind of music, even though I screwed up, even though I laughed at you when you played ABBA that first day.

This is how it came out: I feel obligated to invite you to this Battle of the Bands because you were literally there when I got the call about it, it would feel wrong to not at least invite you, and even though I'm being polite and nice, I don't actually care whether you come or not, you know, it's all casual and whatever.

Castiel can't read between the lines as well – hell, they don't even _know_ each other that well.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says and at that point, Dean is pretty much expecting it anyway, so at least it doesn't hurt as much. “But it's around Christmas and my family always gets together, I can't get out of it.”

“Yeah, no, that's totally understandable,” Dean mumbles but shakes his head when Cas tries to give him back the flyer. “No, keep that thing. In case you change your mind.”

Castiel doesn't even smile. “Okay. Thanks. I'm really – I'm really sorry.”

Dean shakes his head, again. “Don't be. I get it,” he says, even offers a tiny broken smile that is as fake as smiles can be. But it's an honest offer, however fake it is: that's the paradox, just like this whole situation is one as well.

Castiel carefully folds it in half and stuffs it in his pocket; he leaves Dean standing by the used section and goes towards the backroom, unbuttoning his stupidly long black coat that shouldn't look that good on him (or anyone, for that matter).

“Wow,” Charlie says right next to Dean and he almost jumps out of his skin. “That was incredible.”

“You're worse than Eileen,” he grumbles, looking away from her to hide his own embarrassment, and the rejection that must be reflecting on his face.

Charlies tsk's. “You flatter me.”

“You wish.”

“Anyway, that was incredible,” Charlie says again, linking arms with Dean and leaning all her weight on him. “And I thought you had no idea how to talk to people. _Both of you_ are completely useless.”

“Better set us up, then,” Dean says, half-jokingly, and he hears Charlie gasp.

“Did you just admit to your ugly, humongous, noticeable from space crush?” she asks, faking shock.

Dean shrugs. “It's not going anywhere anyway, so why not. C'mon, let's get this store running,” he says, and with their arms still linked, he walks them through the store.

His chest feels heavy and his lungs like they're trying to expand past their limits, and it makes him gasp. Some things just don't work out, right? And that's okay.

Right?

 

///

 

Something feels terribly wrong. Dean doesn't feel one hundred percent good in his body right now; he feels it when he rolls his shoulders, when he grabs his guitar, when Ash tries to give them a pep talk a few minutes before they're up.

The only good thing is that the other bands all sound ridiculously, unbelievably bad. It kind of gives him hope.

But other than that, he doesn't know how to fix his uneasiness. He kids himself that it's just stage fright, but he knows that feels different. Stage fright is when he can't breathe and is panting all at the same time and he's kind of dizzy in a really good way and his stomach is doing somersaults. This, whatever it is, feels more like emptiness.

And it's ridiculous to think it's because a certain someone isn't here.

(Although, deep down, Dean has a feeling that that's what's happening anyway.)

“You alright?” Sam asks, popping up next to him seemingly out of nowhere, opening a can of Pepsi. After a sip, he offers it to Dean as well, but he shakes his head no.

Instead, he shrugs, as if trying to shrug off the weird feeling he can't quite place. “Do you think those guys out there are doing their best and they're really that bad?”

“I sure hope so,” Sam says. “Gives us a good chance.”

“The crowd doesn't seem too happy to be here,” Dean sighs; he's stolen a glance or two at the people in the pit. Most of them aren't even moving to the rhythm, not to mention jamming out to the music. He's not sure if it's the music itself or not.

“Tickets are relatively cheap, it's Christmas, they're probably lost cases if they're here instead of at home tonight,” Sam muses, and he's probably not wrong.

“Could be worse, I guess,” Dean says at last, but here's the truth: it means it could also be better.

“You really seem like you're someplace else right now, you sure you're alright?”

Dean sighs, wishing Sam had beer in that can instead of a non-alcoholic beverage, even though he knows that he shouldn't be drinking just before they're up. The whole place looks a lot less glamorous than he imagined it: the backstage is small, cramped, kind of stinky, no one treats them in a special way, it feels so unimportant.

Would it honestly help if Cas showed up, would it make such a big difference? Do the others, Sam and Jess and Ash, do they feel different, do they feel like this is it, like it's big?

He shakes his head again. “I don't know, man. What are we doing here?”

Sam rests his hand on Dean's shoulder casually, his palm warm a big and comforting. “We're here to do our thing, whatever that is, and we're going to do it well. Are you with us, Dean? 'Cause we kind of need you.”

“'Course I'm with you,” Dean says and manages a smile even though his guitar feels heavy around his neck. Despite that, Sam's words were exactly what Dean needed to hear and as Sam parts to talk to the other guys as well, Dean feels a little more like himself.

Whatever balance he regains fades into nothing the second they're up and he walks out on the stage, towards the right side. The lights are on him and there are a few people screaming something unintelligible and he feels small and terrible and then Jess starts them off and he needs to move his fingers and the first chords sound like he's still just learning how to play and he wants to die.

_Imagine he's here_ , his brain tells him suddenly and Dean wants to dismiss it so, so badly. It shouldn't be important. Cas and he are nothing. They've known each other for only a little while. It should not be important at all.

And yet.

_Imagine he's here_ , his brain insists and Dean's walls are too weak – they crumble and in between chords, Dean imagines Cas is there, in the crowd, or waiting in the backstage, simply watching them. Listening. Being there. Being Cas.

He relaxes a bit after that, almost magically. His fingers find their way around the chords and he finds it in him to look into the crowd.

In the end, this is what he always wanted to do. The stage is solid underneath his feet and the music is loud and people are having fun, they sound good, and imagining that Cas is out there somewhere – moving to the music, maybe, or sipping on a beer, or smiling – it starts to work. He starts to work.

Yeah, they sound good.

It's a bit too overwhelming and Dean can't quite pay attention to the others – but he knows that they're all doing their job, Jess killing it on the drums, Sam playing his bass like a God, Ash giving it his all.

Towards the end of their song, Dean smiles to himself, for a brief moment letting himself imagine the aftermath of it as well: running off backstage into Cas' warm arms, receiving a kiss.

(So what did he do wrong that night, what did he do wrong after that, why did Cas say no, why is it so haunting, why is he not here? Why is Dean alone here? Why why why.)

The final chords come out perfect and just like that, their big moment is over. Ash sings the last few notes and Jess hits the drums and Sam's guitar fades into silence. To be honest, the crowd is still half-dead, but when they look at each other, they know: this was good. They did good.

Dean's face breaks into a smile despite Cas' absence.

They hurl them back backstage where they regroup and still bouncy, still panting, they go for a group hug, aka the worst cliché of them all that feels absolutely amazing.

“We _rocked_ this baby,” Ash practically screams right into Dean's ear.

“Hell yeah!” Jess chimes in. The second they all pull apart, she wraps her arms around Sam's neck and he picks her up – and that's when Dean looks away.

“There's someone here to see you!” one of the assistant tells them loudly as Dean claps Ash's back in pretty much victory.

“Hey, maybe it's your grandma, Ash,” Dean laughs.

Ash's face freezes. “God, I wouldn't even be surprised, man.”

“I think they're just enjoying the quiet now that we're not in their garage for once,” Dean tells him, then looks at the guy – he looks dead-professional, running around with a headset, even though the venue is small and everyone's awfully disorganized anyway. “Who is it?”

“Some guy,” the assistant shrugs, chewing gum. “He's over there.” He points with his thumb towards the door to the stinky tiny bathroom and Dean looks that way.

And, you're probably expecting this, but Dean honestly isn't, so it really shocks him when his eyes fall on messy hair, on a lovely face, when he looks into those eyes and yeah, it's Cas alright. It's Cas and he's here.

“What the hell,” Dean murmurs, and Ash shrugs.

“Don't know him either, man.”

“No, I know him, I – Give me a second,” he says, shouting over the next band that's already up on the stage – the last one, and worse than any other band so far. Which is uplifting, in terms of their chances at a win.

“I will _kill_ you if you're not here for the --”

“Calm down, drama queen, I'll be right back,” Dean cuts him off, already setting off to navigate his way across the room, through the small crowd of other band members and their friends standing around, chatting, reassuring themselves that they can win.

(Which is exactly the same thing Dean and his band are doing. But that's different.)

Backstage never seemed larger, to be honest. It takes Dean approximately half a minute to cross it and get to Cas, but it feels five times as big and ten times as tiring. His heart is beating faster than when they were out and playing, because for some reason, this seems fatal. It seems like it could be an ending instead of a beginning.

“Hey,” he says when he finally gets to him, his voice hoarse and careful, almost quiet enough to be overheard.

Castiel, who smiles just the tiniest of smiles, nods. “Hello,” he says just as quietly, and then suddenly, he drops his gaze to the floor and Dean has to fight the urge to touch his face and lift his chin up and ask him how he can be so beautiful in this dim backstage light. It shouldn't be possible.

“So, uh,” Dean mumbles instead, suddenly sweating in his two-layered clothing, wishing the flannel was airier, “What're you doing here?”

“Oh,” Castiel breathes out. He looks up then – he doesn't look confused, but otherwise, his face is unreadable. “I wanted to apologize.”

Dean can hear the last band's guitarist rock his solo – undoubtedly the best part of their song – which means they're more than halfway through it. They don't have long. “Apologize for what? You don't need to --”

“Telling you that I couldn't make it was stupid,” Castiel interrupts him, and okay, now he looks _determined_. “This is where I wanted to be, and it scared me. I didn't think I would belong here and I don't -”

“That's bullshit, Cas -”

“No, but that's okay, _you_ belong here, and watching you, I kind of – I kind of felt like I belong with _you_ , so...”

Dean falters. He doesn't know what to do with that. It's exactly what he wanted to hear, what he hoped for, but actually having it? That privilege, that knowledge that someone like Cas feels the same pull Dean has been struggling with? It's monumental.

“You were here?” he asks instead of saying _thank god you said that it's exactly how I feel you could play Mozart and I'd be there with you because of you for you_.

Castiel looks almost bashful, obviously struggling to maintain their eye contact; but he does, and his shyness hides in his slight smile and in the blush that seems dark red in this lighting. “Yes. I can't say I understand rock but I really liked you, guys.”

Which is when the dam breaks and it all spills. First it fills Dean up but then the overflow overtakes him and it pours out of him, and he -

“I – Can I kiss you?” he asks, dumbfounded, mostly speechless, he doesn't even know how those words made it out of his mouth.

It seems to take Cas by surprise because for a second, he just stares – and Dean thinks he misinterpreted the situation again, somehow.

But then he nods.

Not even a word. Just a nod.

Sharp and quick and as needy as Dean feels.

So he leans over and he presses an impatient kiss against Castiel's mouth and instantly, right away, he melts into it. Castiel's mouth feels like home, feels like victory, feels like sunshine even though it's Christmas. The sun is always up somewhere in the world – right now, it's here, golden rays and warmth pouring out of Cas' mouth into Dean's.

It's everything he wanted it to be, and the most beautiful thing is that it's banal. It's not even the best kiss he's ever had. In a way, it's excruciatingly awkward, they don't match like two puzzle pieces, and that makes it perfect.

Castiel's fingers hold on to the front of Dean's shirt, as if trying to pull him closer, and Dean doesn't have it in him to protest. He himself has no clue what to do with his hands. His fingers are buzzing and for once, it's not because he played the guitar too much and the strings took vengeance. This is happiness.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam yells from the other side of the backstage room, and not even that manages to break them up completely – they pull apart but they stay locked in their bubble. “They're about to announce the winners! Get your ass over here!”

“Comin'!” he yells back, his hand finding Cas'. “Come with me, with us.”

Another nod. Flushed and filled with everything that just happened, that something that doesn't need a label yet.

Dean drags Cas with him towards the rest of the guys – Jess gives me a short nod of approval, Ash rolls his eyes and Sam mutters 'Finally,' and that's it, he just pats Cas' back, they don't comment on it, it's just what it is.

Dean's fingers are wrapped tight around Cas' and even if they don't win this, even if they lose this one, there'll be another Battle at some point – and besides, Dean has already won something far better tonight.

 

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little thing! c:
> 
> As always, if you'd like to talk and/or follow my (very much multifandom atm) ass, I'm on tumblr @ [deanghostchester](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com). ♥


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